Let Me Tempt You
by Raphaela Crowley
Summary: The year is 1603, and Aziraphale is considering backing out of the Arrangement. Crowley doesn't want him to, but if the angel chooses to leave, he knows he probably can't stop him. No slash. One-shot


_Let Me Tempt You_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

March 1603:

It had to happen _eventually_. It was inevitable.

Since the angel and demon had first started the Arrangement, things had always been either a draw – the most often, comfortable occurrence – neither side advanced nor set back – or very occasionally it became a win for good, the blessing won over the temptation inexplicably, despite everything being against it.

Damned humans. They could always surprise you, even after thousands of years.

The first time it happened and Aziraphale learned of it, he'd – without realising that was what he was doing – rushed over to Crowley to gloat.

Crowley had been lost in thought, wondering if Hell was going to find out and unleash something unpleasant on him, when plump, clean hands had slid over his face, covering his eyes from behind.

To add insult to injury, the angel had, in the most aggravating of chipper voices, proceeded to croon, "_Guess who_?"

Crowley had not responded particularly nicely to that. A number of the words he used to express his feelings were not fit to print in that time period (even by today's more lenient standards, they would be considered extremely rude).

Aziraphale was crestfallen. "But my dear boy, I thought you'd be _pleased_ – it's so nice, how lovely it all turned out."

Softening, Crowley had had to remind his friend that he was a_ demon_, not an angel – a fact Aziraphale seemed to frequently forget in the early days of the Arrangement. That it was _not_ pleasing for him when things turned out 'lovely'. Didn't he realise how many false memos he was going to have to invent to get Hell off his back for this?

"Aren't you just a _little bit_ glad, though?" Aziraphale had finally asked, fingers pinched together then lifted up to signify a small amount of something, his voice gone rather small. "For the _people_?"

Crowley _was_, a little, for the people _and_ for Aziraphale, but sullenly refused to admit it.

But the opposite had to happen eventually. Bad had to win.

It actually had done so twice before, except these had occurred on Crowley's turns being both tempter and dealer of blessings, and he'd taken pains that Aziraphale should not learn of the disheartening events. He wasn't one to brag, except to head office (which _everybody_ did, so that hardly counted), and he didn't want to see the angel upset.

But in 1603, it was Aziraphale on double-duty. They'd flipped a coin for it, and he'd lost.

Crowley was delighted, at first. Winning the coin toss meant he got to stay in a nice, snug inn drinking mulled wine by a roasty-toasty fireplace in the common room while the angel went out in the cold and damp (it was awful weather for that time of year) and did all the grunt work.

No weary legs, no sore buttocks. Just warmth and a lot of people in caps who called him Sir and asked if he required anything else. And as long as his cup was full, he most certainly didn't, and told them so, tossing an extra coin to the thrilled innkeepers just for the Heaven of it. He could hear merrymakers laughing in the adjoining tavern, none of them drunk enough yet to be disruptive. They seemed as contented as he felt.

Then, when it was quite dark out, the door opened with a blast of cold air and a very weary Aziraphale stumbled in, uncharacteristically dishevelled, not looking at anybody. He made a particular point of not looking at _Crowley _especially.

The demon understood what must have finally happened.

While the innkeeper's daughter offered Aziraphale a steaming mug, which he took and swallowed down the contents of at a surprisingly rapid rate before motioning that he would like it refilled, if she pleased, Crowley tried – as offhandedly as he could – to comfort him.

"Musn't blame yourself, angel. These things–"

"I _don't_," he mumbled darkly, darting a scornful glance at Crowley's face. "I blame _you_."

"Me?" he exclaimed, offended. "Hold up. Don't get your velvet breeches all in a self-righteous knot! What did_ I _do?"

"This whole" – Aziraphale hiccuped twice, before a small belch escaped him, doubtless from drinking too quickly – "excuse me, sorry. Where was I?"

"This whole," Crowley prompted.

"Right. Thank you. This whole Arrangement was your absurd idea. Now look what's happened. Somebody's chosen to do bad."

"Oi, that's free will. Got nothing to do with _me_. I've been sitting here all afternoon – ask anyone you like. Every person who's been in and out of the tavern and common room today could tell you–"

"Don't play innocent with me, you old serpent." Aziraphale downed his second cup of whatever the innkeeper's daughter had given him and was waving her down for a third, though she was taking her sweet time flirting with a man polishing boots before getting back to him with the decanter. "It's not the same for _you_ – you're nice. You don't really care when good–"

Crowley slammed his fist on a nearby end-table. There was a _bang _from the force of his hand hitting the wood emphatically and a ringing _clang_ of shaking porcelain. "Don't you dare call me _nice_. Do you hear me? Not in public. Not ever. Or you'll find out how not nice I really am. Understand?"

"No," snapped Aziraphale, making his way towards the tavern, where he pulled out a chair. The dragged chair scraped on the floor, like nails on a chalkboard. "You're quite right. You're not nice. You're not nice at all – you put me in a terrible predicament with this sharing jobs lark and I..." He stopped and hiccuped again. "I loathe you for it."

"Oh, yes, because Hell is _so_ kind to me when things go smashingly for you," hissed Crowley, flinging himself into the wooden seat across from Aziraphale.

The innkeeper's daughter – hearing their raised, moving voices – had picked up the pace and brought the decanter over to their table. Perhaps she thought they were angry because of _her_. The girls formerly steady hands shook as she lifted the stopper.

Crowley waved her off. "Just leave it here. Trust me, we'll drink it." He tossed her another coin, impatiently. "Go away now before you spill something."

"I can't do this any more," Aziraphale moaned.

"You're not doing anything," Crowley reminded him. "We both have jobs to do – even if you never tempted anybody, _I'd_ still have to. We cancel each other out. We've talked about this many times."

"But I'm meant to...meant to..." Aziraphale seemed unable to form a coherent thought. "I'm meant to stop you. Not let you do whatever you want and have a drink with you afterwards."

"Whatever I want? You didn't complain when my performing those insipid blessings your side is so damn fond of–"

"S'different. I even let you use my name – if anyone asks, they still think it was me. Hell can't punish you for what _I_ do."

"You could have used _my _name. I never said you couldn't."

"I tried once," he admitted, momentarily coherent. "Nobody believed_ I _was a demon called Crowley."

"Let us pray that my life never depends on you pretending to be me, then," the demon murmured. "You're obviously complete rubbish at it."

Aziraphale pouted. "Don't you change the subject. Don't you dare. The point is...the Arrangement...it's flawed. It's a wicked thing and we must have an end to it."

"An end to it, just like that?" He was trying to hide his alarm. The thought of going back to the days of working completely alone was daunting. He'd grown rather attached to the only face he'd seen with any consistency for the last few thousand years. Everybody else died, or went back to Hell. Or in the case of an angel named Sandalphon, made a rude gesture at him before popping off in a frightful hurry.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Aziraphale sighed. "_Don't_."

"You're obviously very upset, you've had a bad day," Crowley said. "Why don't you rest on it? Go up to your room and lie down for a few hours. I'm certain that you'll feel differently once–"

Aziraphale was attempting to pour what – this time – was an amber-coloured liquid from the decanter (clearly the innkeeper's daughter had brought back the wrong one, forgetting what the angel had been drinking previously). He managed to hit his mug on the third try.

"I'd take it easy if I were you." Crowley reached out to steady the angel's hand. "You're going to get alcohol all over your silken jerkin then complain about the stain all night."

"Don't bother. I'll sober up in a few moments, Crowley. I'm clearly doing myself no favours."

"Go up to your room," Crowley suggested again, more kindly, giving his friend's arm a light squeeze.

"Haven't got one," Aziraphale admitted, a touch sulkily, recoiling. "Thought I'd be back before tea and heading back towards London by now, happy in the knowledge I'd made somebody's life better today. Didn't think it would all go wrong. Didn't pay for any rooms. Now they're all booked."

"Oh, for the love of..." he began, then trailed off. "You can use mine, then. It's the fourth from the landing. Just rest before you do anything rash, all right?"

As Aziraphale rose from his seat, the decanter filled back up. His gait grew steadier – and sadder – as he headed for the staircase.

* * *

An hour and a half later, Crowley made his way up to the room, expecting to find – at least this once – Aziraphale asleep. The angel rarely slept, but he looked like he needed it today. Instead, he found him seated in front of the writing desk, scratching something out with a cheap quill pen in his perfect copperplate handwriting.

The demon only caught a few words before the angel crumpled the parchment into a ball and flung it into the dustbin.

The few words were enough.

_Gabriel. Confession. Regret to inform. Troubled conscience, what. _

Dammit, thought Crowley.

"You're not," was all he managed aloud. "You're really _not_."

Aziraphale started. "Oh, when did you get in?"

"Just now."

"Saw that, did you?" His cheeks had gone a shamefaced hue of pink.

The demon grunted.

"Well, it's like I was saying downstairs, Crowley, this can't go on. And if I'm to make a clean break of it...I'll have to... I'll have to tell...that is confess...what I've been doing... I'm sure to get a very ugly, very strongly-worded reply, but they'll have to understand, in the end..."

"How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?"

"That isn't fair."

"What you're _doing_ isn't fair. You're going to get yourself in a whole mess of trouble, angel. For what? Because some idiot human was tempted by a vice? You're being ridiculous."

"People got hurt, Crowley."

"People get hurt _every day_ – they get run over by fruit carts; they fall into wells and break their legs and drown; they get jealous of each others wives and money and cows and stab one another with very sharp knives; they eat poison and curl up in a fetal position waiting for the sweet hand of death."

"I never found Azrael to be very sweet. Not personally. We're all God's creatures, to be sure, but _sweet_ is not a word I would use to –"

"Figure of speech, angel!" he fumed. "The point is that's no reason for all this." His hand waved at the crumpled ball of parchment. "Don't make me beg you to reconsider. It's demeaning."

Aziraphale shook his head. "I'm so sorry, my dear. Truly I am."

"Whatever," said Crowley, with nonchalance he did not feel in the least. "If you're not sleeping in the bed, _I_ am." He began unbuttoning his black jerkin. "I've had a long day, too, you know."

And indeed he had. All the pleasant things had drained out of it, marred by the fact that he was losing the only thing resembling a friend he had.

Oh, and the fact that Hell was probably going to gut him and turn his innards into hell hound chow when this all came out.

Yes, there was that, too.

But somehow it rankled slightly less than the former.

He blamed his inability to prioritize on the mulled wine he hadn't bothered removing from his bloodstream.

* * *

Aziraphale sat mutely watching as Crowley splashed water from a chipped basin onto his face, several droplets lingering on the little ginger tuff of a beard on his chin, before sulkily throwing himself into the bed.

He didn't want to hurt the poor fellow. It wasn't _really_ Crowley's fault. That was the reason none of the letters were right. He was trying to think of a way to leave Crowley's name out of it, and failing – failing miserably. He had to do it, though, didn't he? Confess to Gabriel, take the punishment like a good and proper angel, with all the dignity a Principality used to have before they became a joke.

He _had_ to, right?

Of course, once he confessed, once he bucked up and took it in stride, he would have to accept he'd never see – or speak to – Crowley again. The other angels would make sure of that – they'd have to protect him from falling back into temptation to associate with a demon.

What would they do to Crowley, though?

Either side might do anything – absolutely _anything_ – to him and think themselves perfectly justified. They might not even tell Aziraphale about it for his own good.

Could he really live with that?

The candles in the room burned down to nothing, and dark shadows shifted.

Aziraphale lit another wick, set the fresh candle in a silver holder, and made his way – padding barefooted – over to Crowley's bedside.

He looked down at the sleeping demon for a long while.

Crowley was so skinny and pale with his long red hair fanned out behind him. The feather bed was a large one, so that the demon almost looked like a child in it. A helpless, exhausted child, all angles, all knees and elbows.

There was a spot of drool on his pillow, only furthering the child-like illusion.

But this was no child.

This was a demon. The snake who tempted Eve in the Garden. The Black Knight of Arthurian lore. A force to be reckoned with.

He was a big demon, really. He could take care of himself, surely.

Couldn't he?

Aziraphale noticed his friend had forgotten to take off his dark, tinted spectacles. It couldn't be comfortable, sleeping like that. There was the question of where to put them, though. If he placed them beside him on the bed, Crowley might just roll over them in his sleep. The jerkin Crowley removed earlier wasn't there – probably because it wasn't real – so he couldn't slip them into the pocket or anything. After a moment's deliberation, he reached out and gently lifted them off, placing them atop the thick bedpost, where they balanced only slightly precariously.

There.

The demon's long fingers curled around the edge of the patchwork coverlet and he snored briefly.

Aziraphale felt his shoulders sag. "I can't." He patted the demon's exposed hand. "I'm sorry. May the good Lord forgive me, I can't do it."

* * *

When Crowley awoke there was a brilliant fire blazing in the room and an extra velvet blanket had been put over the coverlet. Little hard snowflakes, barely a step up from sleet or hail, more like frozen rain, really, were hitting the casement window.

Aziraphale was not there. Neither were his crumpled parchments. The dustbin was empty, immaculate.

Crowley tossed back the covers and drew in a sharp breath. He was afraid – horribly afraid with proper terror he hadn't felt in ages – but would not let himself admit it.

If the angel was gone, he was long gone.

There was no telling when he might have left.

He was gone and he was never coming back. Not ever.

Why had he ever let him lose that stupid coin toss?

The room was a furnace of glowing warmth yet Crowley still shivered violently as he fumbled about for his spectacles, nearly knocking them off the bedpost in his haste.

He was still in a rumpled, undressed state when he opened the door, but was dressed and ready by the time he stepped over the threshold, not a strand of hair out of place or a wrinkle in his black jerkin.

Crowley wondered, as he made his way down the stairs, how long he had until Hell sent somebody for him.

He wished he had some sort of insurance.

Because if Gabriel knew about the Arrangement, which he surely must by now, Aziraphale must have gotten the letter to him, and even if the pompous archangel put off reading it a couple of hours, surely by now...

Anyway, regardless, Gabriel would let word get back to Hell.

Then Crowley would be at the mercy of some very pissed off demons. Or even Satan himself, possibly. He mustn't rule out that they'd take it all the way to the top in their fury. He hadn't seen the devil in what felt like forever, but losing the rebellion hadn't exactly made his old pal Lucifer a reasonable ruler in current times.

"That's it," Crowley murmured to himself, "I'm fu–" He stopped.

A person who looked suspiciously like Aziraphale – but bloody couldn't be Aziraphale, because the angel had left early to rat the Arrangement out to Gabriel – was sitting in a high-backed chair eating crepes with sweet cream and brown sugar like it was going out of style.

He brightened when he saw Crowley, motioning down at his plate with his fork. "Have you tried these? They're scrummy."

"You didn't leave," said the demon, in some amazement.

"Oh, I couldn't," he replied, with forced airiness. "I decided I simply couldn't. Seriously, Crowley, you _must _try these. They call them crepes. They're very good."

"I don't think so. Probably safer to stick with fruit or something."

The angel smiled slowly. "Let me tempt you."

**A/N: reviews always welcome, replies may sometimes be delayed.**


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